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Ci?PmiGHT BEPOSm 



THE LAMP 

OF POOR SOULS 

AND OTHER POEMS 




"Lay Thou the hand of faith upon my fears" 

The Lamp of Poor Souls {Page ij, 



The 

LAMP of POOR SOULS 

AND OTHER POEMS 

BY 

MARJORIE L. C. PICKTHALL 



FRONTISPIECE 

BY 

F.WALTER TAYLOR 



NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 

TORONTO: s.B. gundy: mcmxvi 






i^^-bV 



Copyright, 1916, 
By John Lane Company 






Press of 

J. J. Little & Ives Company 

New .York, U. S. A. 



NOV 22 1916 



• GI.A445737 



IN MEMORY OF 
MY MOTHER 



The greater number of these poems appeared 
in an earlier volume, "The Drift of Pinions." 
My thanks are due to Messrs. Scribner's for 
allowing me to include "Mary Shepherdess" 
among the poems hitherto unpublished in book 
form, and to the University Magazine of Mon- 
treal for much kindness in connection with the 
work that has appeared in their pages. 

M. L. C. P. 



England, 1916. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Lamp of Poor Souls 13 

Song 15 

Birds at Evening 16 

Improvisation on the Flute .... 18 

An Epitaph 20 

Salutaris Hostia 21 

Mary Shepherdess 23 

Vale 26 

Two Lyrics 28 

On Amaryllis 30 

Wiltshire 32 

Gold Dawn 34 

Departure 35 

Dimitte Mortuos 36 

Song 37 

Traveller's Joy 39 

The Young Baptist 41 

Armorel 44 

The Little Fauns to Proserpine ... 47 

Wanderlied 50 

vii 



CONTENTS 

PAGB 

To Alcithoe 52 

The Sea Witch 53 

The Immortal 54 

Dawn 56 

Evening 59 

The Green Month 61 

Song of Late September 62 

Frost Song 64 

Dream River 65 

Swallows 66 

The Pool (i^ 

O Silver Rose 69 

The Bridegroom of Cana 70 

A Mother in Egypt 73 

St. Yves* Poor 'j'j 

The Little Sister of the Prophet . . So 

PlETER MaRINUS 83 

In the Gardens of Shushan .... 85 

Pere Lalemant 87 

Bega 90 

In a Monastery Garden 92 

A Child's Song 94 

A Child's Song of Christmas ... 95 
viii 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Youth's End 97 

Jasper's Song 99 

The Hillman's Lass loi 

The Shepherd Boy 103 

Duna 106 

My Father He Was a Fisherman . . 107 

Jennifer's Lad 109 

Three Island Songs no 

Serenade 113 

The Lovers of Marchaid 114 

The House's Setting 117 

Deus Misereatur 118 

Fame 119 

Kwannon 121 

MoNS Angelorum 124 

A Saxon Epitaph i39 



uc 



THE LAMP 

OF POOR SOULS 

AND OTHER POEMS 



The Lamp of Poor Souls 

In many English churches before the Reforma- 
tion there ivas kept a little lamp continually burning, 
called the Lamp of Poor Souls. People 'were re- 
minded thereby to pray for the souls of those dead 
nuhose kinsfolk vjere too poor to pay for prayers and 
masses. 



Above my head the shields are stained with rust, 
The wind has taken his spoil, the moth his part; 
Dust of dead men beneath my knees, and dust, 
Lord, in my heart. 

Lay Thou the hand of faith upon my fears; 
The priest has prayed, the silver bell has rung. 
But not for him. O unforgotten tears, 
He was so young! 

Shine, little lamp, nor let thy light grow dim. 
"Into what vast, dread dreams, what lonely lands. 
Into what griefs hath death delivered him. 
Far from my hands? 

13 



The Lamp of Poor Souls 

Cradled is he, with half his prayers forgot. 
I cannot learn the level way he goes. 
He whom the harvest hath remembered not 
Sleeps with the rose. 

Shine, little lamp, fed with sweet oil of prayers. 
Shine, little lamp, as God's own eyes may shine, 
When He treads softly down His starry stairs 
And whispers, "Thou art Mine." 

Shine, little lamp, for love hath fed thy gleam. 
Sleep, little soul, by God's own hands set free. 
Cling to His arms and sleep, and sleeping, dream. 
And dreaming, look for me. 



14 



Song 

I SHALL not go with pain 

Whether you hold me, whether you forget 

My little loss and my immortal gain. 

flower unseen, O fountain sealed apart! 
Give me one look, one look remembering yet, 
Sweet heart. 

1 shall not go with grief, 

Whether you call me, whether you deny 
The crowning vintage and the golden sheaf. 
O, April hopes that blossom but to close! 
Give me one look, one look and so good-bye, 
Red rose. 

I shall not go with sighs, 

But as full-crowned the warrior leaves the fight, 
Dawn on his shield and death upon his eyes. 
O, life so bitter-sweet and heaven so far! 
Give me one look, one look and so good night. 
My star. 

15 



Birds at Evening 

When the rooks fly homeward, and the gulls 

are following high, 
And the grey feet of the silence with a silver 

dream are shod, 
I mind me of the little wings abroad in every sky 
Who seek their sleep of God. 

When the dove is hidden, and the dew is white 
on the corn, 

And the dark bee in the heather, and the shep- 
herd with the sheep, 

I mind me of the little wings in the holm-oak 
and the thorn 

Who take of Him their sleep. 

When the brier closes and the iris-flower is 
furled, 
And over the edge of the evening the martin 
knows her nest, 

i6 



Birds at Evening 

I mind me of the little hearts abroad in all the 

world 
Who find in Him their rest. 



17 



Improvisation on the Flute 

My lost delight, my guest, 
Fled from me when I stirred, 
Silently as the bird 
That has no nest. 

She has gathered darkness to build her a nest 

And the little leaves of cloud. 

She crouches with her breast against darkness, 

And hides as a hare in the meadows of night. 

It covers her like long grass 

Whose blossom is all of stars; 

Crocus-stars, stars of anemone, 

Where cling the moths that are the longings of 

men. 
She is born of the evening. 
When the moon breathes the scent of young 

thyme, 
And the dead shepherds hear the sheep cropping 

in the dew. 

i8 



Improvisation on the Flute 

She is slain of the morning, 

When the thin willow-leaves tremble like fire 

Burning the branches, 

As if each were a sorrow that burned and shone 

Forever. 

My shadow, my desire, 

Come to me, listen, and stay, 

Ah, never? 

With the day 

She is gone, she is gone 

Away 

Forever 

My guest, my lost delight, 
Come nearer, star by star. 
Sweet as the lips of night 
Your kisses are. 



19 



An Epitaph 

Friend, pass softly. Here is one 
Morning spent her gold upon; 
Suns enriched her, and the beat 
Of April's tide flowed at her feet. 
With each blossom, lovelier she; 
Lovelier she with every leaf. 
Spring forgets her now, and we 
Count her summers by our grief. 



20 



Salutaris Hostia 

When the moon is last awake, 
Silver-thin above the fields, 
Crushed, like roses, for Thy sake. 
All my soul its fragrance yields. 
All my hungry heart is fed 
Sundering sweetness like a sword, 
O my Lord, 
Hidden within Thy broken bread. 

Hands of morning, take the cup 

Whence the Life of Love is drained; 

Hold it, raise it, lift it up 

Till the lucent heavens be stained. 

Joy and sorrow, lip to lip, 

Lost in likeness at the end, 

O my Friend, 

Taste Thy wine of fellowship. 

21 



Salutaris Hostia 

All life's splendour, all life's pride, 
Dust are they. I lay them down. 
They were thorns that when You died 
Wove for You a wounding crown. 
But the brier of death's in bud, 
All its loveliness he knows, 
Sharon's Rose, 
That has shared Thy flesh and blood. 



22 



Mary Shepherdess 

When the heron's in the high wood and the 

last long furrow's sown, 
With the herded cloud before her 

and her sea-sweet raiment blown, 
Comes Mary, Mary Shepherdess, a-seeking for 

her own. 

Saint James he calls the righteous folk, Saint 

John he calls the kind, 
Saint Peter seeks the valiant men all to loose 

or bind. 
But Mary seeks the little souls that are so hard 

to find. 

All the little sighing souls born of dust's despair, 
They who fed on bitter bread when the world 

was bare, 
Frighted of the glory gates and the starry stair. 
23 



Mary Shepherdess 

All about the windy down, housing in the ling, 
Underneath the alder bough linnet-light they 

cling, 
Frighted of the shining house where the martyrs 

sing. 

Crying in the ivy-bloom, fingering at the pane. 
Grieving in the hollow dark, lone along the 

rain, — 
Mary, Mary Shepherdess gathers them again. 

And O, the wandering women know, in work- 
house and in shed. 

They dream on Mary Shepherdess with doves 
about her head. 

And pleasant posies in her hand, and sorrow com- 
forted. 

Saying: There's my little lass, faring fine and 

free. 
There's the little lad I laid by the holly tree. 
Dreaming: There's my nameless bairn laughing 

at her knee. 

24 



Mary Shepherdess 

When the bracken-harvest's gathered and the 

frost is on the loam, 
When the dream goes out in silence and the ebb 

runs out in foam, 
Mary, Mary Shepherdess, she bids the lost Iambs 

home. 

If I had a little maid to turn my tears away. 
If I had a little lad to lead me when I'm grey. 
All to Mary Shepherdess they'd fold their hands 
and pray. 



25 



Vale 

Pass on, beloved. I seek no sign of you 

Of faith, or faith's farewell. 

All that I had, I hold divine of you; 

Before these shadows fell 

I wrought for you an altar and a crown 

Too dear for death to dim, or life cast down. 

Pass on, my heart. I ask no care of you, 
To hold all time in trust. 
It is enough I keep my share of you 
A little from the dust. 

And when immortal morning opes her door. 
Pass through, my dream. You do not leave me 
poor. 

Pass on, beloved. I ask no grief of you, 
No sadness, no regret. 

Those days, those nights, a garnered sheaf of you, 
Are in my treasury yet ; 
26 



Vale 

And there, beyond the laurels and the doves — 
Is it your face, or is it only love's? 

Yea, you are one, you twain who dwelled to- 
gether, 
And lovers in this place. 

Dark with green silence under the gold weather, 
Shall see one star-like face. 
And name you love, and linger, and draw near, 
Happy to know what gods were worshipped here. 



27 



Two Lyrics 



All in a rainy hazel wood 
I watched the hyacinth break 
Her lucent sheath, as if she could 
Make summer for your sake. 

And year by year the hyacinth-tide 
Breaks in a foam of flowers 
For other loves than we denied 
And other griefs than ours. 

Long wed, long dead, so I've been told, 
But still when Spring's set free. 
All in a drift of rainy gold 
You walk the wood with me. 

II 

How looked she when she breathed good-bye? 
Most like a bird, whose breast 
28 



Two Lyrics 

Across a thousand wastes of sky 
Is constant to her nest. 

How looked she when she turned away? 

Most as a spirit might, 

Who shared our sorrow for a day 

Yet kept her home in sight. 

O, looked she sad or seemed she glad? 
Most like a star, that knows 
Only the loveliness it had, 
The light to which it goes. 



29 



On Amaryllis 

A Tortoyse 

My name was Amaryllis. I 

From a harde Shell put forthe to fly; 

No Bird, alas! with Beautie prim'd, 

Hath Death th' inconstant Fowler lim'd. 

No antick Moth on Blossoms set 

Hath Judgement taken in a Net. 

So dull, so slowe, so meeke I went 

In my House-Roof that pay'd no Rent, 

E'en my deare Mistresse guess'd no Spark 

Could e'er enlight'n my dustie Dark. 

Judge not, ye Proud. Each lowlie Thing 
May lack the Voyce, not Heart, to sing. 
The Worme that from the Moulde suspires 
May be attun'd with heavcnlie Quires, 
And I, a-crawling in my Straw, 
Was moved by Love, and made by Law. 
30 



On Amaryllis 

So all ye wise, who 'neath your Clod 
Go creeping onwards up to God, 
Take Heart of me, who by His Grace, 
Slough'd off my Pris'n and won my Race. 



31 



Wiltshire 

I DIED o' cider and taters 
When I war a-turned four-score. 
Us always wer hearty aters, 
My feyther he wer afore. 

And the Laard dun't hold I a sinner, 
The neighbourly angel said, 
Because I wer set on my dinner, 
For a man must goo full-fed. 

But now I be done wi* feedin', 
And a taaste at the market-town. 
'Tis all so idle as Eden 
In the great grey lift o' the down. 

Over the turv and the tillage 
The angels gossip In pairs, 
Most like to folk In the village 
When the pigs was fat for the fairs. 
32 



Wiltshire 

Over the hill goos Master, 
Wi* a tarrible flock o* sheep, 
Peace is the chosen pastur'. 
The Laard He doth us keep. 

Now I be laid in the grasses, 
For I come a gaate of a way, 
And I hear how the Master passes 
The folk wi' the time o' day. 

But I wun't be idle longer, 
Laid here i' the bloom and the seed, 
I'll goo to He when I'm stronger. 
He'll give I lambs to lead. 

I'll ask but six or seven, 
And I'll lay, when the hurdling's done, 
On the great green downs o' heaven, 
And sleep in the livin' Sun. 



33 



Gold Dawn 

Day came like a dove 
To the apple trees and the wheat, 
Her feathers were golden as love 
And silver her feet. 

A song or a shower 
Shook the sweet leaf-shadows apart, 
And like the white moth on the flower 
Clung the dream to my heart. 

And I know not now 
What the dawn made dear to me there, 
But gold was the light on the bough 
And silver the air. 



34 



Departure 

She went. She left no trace to find her, 
No word with wind or flower, 
No rose, no rose let fall behind her 
That lasted but an hour. 

She went. She left no following voices, 
No sign with star or stream, 
Yet still the dreaming earth rejoices 
It knew her from a dream. 



35 



Dimitte Mortuos 

Remember? Nay, they'll not remember 
Long, ere the spark 
Of every breath-warmed, love-Ht ember 
Die in the dark. 

Grieve? Would you burden them vv^ith grieving? 
Tears, while you slept? 
Or is this haunted world you're leaving 
Worthily wept? 

Here on the shore the sweet sea's giving 
Has left, O man, 

A flower of pearl, a flake, outliving 
Thy loftiest span. 

Raise, with the hand that death is taking, 
The brimming shell, 

And wish them, half 'twixt sleep and waking. 
Hail and farewell. 

36 



Song 

O, Life is as a flower is, and my days go down 

Like the ships with their lading from the star- 
white town. 

Their holds are full of apples, and my days go 
from me 

Like the fruit-sweet sails that are lost over sea. 

O, some have willow-baskets a-swinging in the 

hold 
And some have hawthorn-honey in pots all of 

gold, 
And some have seeds of moonwort and thyme and 

rosemary 
For the little island children that are weary of 

the sea. 

O, moonwort of the winter was silvered for a 

bride 
In a low green garden that never knew the tide, 
37 



Song 

And the rosemary was gathered and the thyme 

grown free 
By a river and a rosebush and a round yew tree. 

The thyme will crown the sheep-walks, the rose- 
mary will grow 

Sea-grey along the sea-marks, but I shall never 
know. 

For life is as a leaf is, and like a flower it fails 

With the last light of heaven on the fruit-sweet 
sails. 



38 



Travellers'-Joy 

Lad of my heart, there's never a rose 
In the oak-carr or the grey gorse cover, 
But the young year dances, the old year goes 
To the way of a lass and the way of her lover. 
Up, we must up, for the moon's a-chill, 
And love and a song alike grow still. 
The swift wings gather, the strong wings wait, 
And travellers'-joy goes over the gate. 

Virgin's-bower for the milk-foot May 

And the brown wood-runners that range behind 

her; 
When the rains come and the world's in grey. 
Who shall beckon her, who shall bind her? 
Fled, she is fled with the starry fire, 
And the orchards blossoming, shire on shire. 
But the young moon silvers the evening's edge, 
And travellers'-joy goes over the hedge. 
39 



Travellers'-Joy 

Old-man's-beard for the journey's end, 

The ways that wearied, the paths that tried us, 

But Death the lover and Sleep the friend, 

Tall as the angels, tramp beside us. 

Far hills calling us, peak on peak, 

A road to find and a rest to seek, 

— ^Youth goes lightly and love goes brave, 

But travellers'-joy goes over the grave. 



40 



The Young Baptist 

A SLEEKED mimosa hid him from the rain. 
He saw the quickened valleys gleam and go 
And the clouds break upon a hundred hills, 
Till all the happy silence had a sound, 
Voice upon voice, small as the voice of God 
In Sinai, but the earth shook under them. 
He saw the moonlit rafters of the world. 
Hollowed in thunder, walled with exquisite air, 
Most beautiful. The leaves were laced with 

showers, 
And motionless beneath them couched the flies. 
Bright as small seraphs lately loosed from heaven 
Upon the river'd garden beautiful. 
Beautiful they, and beautiful the bird 
That flashed on him a sudden breast and fled. 
Over a fire of twisted camel-thorn 
He saw the vast recessional of day 
And shivered against the dark, and knew no rest; 
41 



The Young Baptist 

Yet even the dark was lovely. Only he 
Was worn with hungering after righteousness, 
Fouled with strange suffering, dim with many 

dreams. 
The foxes barked against him all night long. 

Dawn rose in silver, shepherding few stars. 
He watched it, all one hunger, body and soul. 
"There is a painted house in Nazareth," 
He said, "once held a little friend, clear-eyed. 
There all day long the whining plane moves over 
The curded length of olive wood, and light 
Bright shavings make the footfall cedar-sweet. 
A woman sits there in the shadow of leaves. 
Watching her men at work, two carpenters, 
While mirrored angels move in her still eyes. 
Yea, is it time? Shall one lay down His tools 
And turn away? To-night the fly shall sleep 
In lily or white cyclamen, the bird 
Shall find the shittim tree that held her brood. 
Shall I be homeless? Lily of Israel, bloom. 
O Tree of Life, make ready my soul's nest. 
42 



The Young Baptist 

Yea, is He come?" 

But only morning came, 
Clear-footed from the frontiers of the world, 
And beat his little fire out as with spears. 
Beautiful on the' mountains were her feet. 



43 



Armorel 

When within the rippling tide 
Shakes the silver-pointed moon, 
When the rainbow flies of noon 
All have died, 

When the bats go wheeling far, 
And the mournful owl has cried 
Twice or thrice a-down the glen 
Grey with gathering shade, and when 
Gates o' dream are held ajar, — 
From the alders in the dell. 
From the bracken fronds astir, 
Elfin voices call to her, — 

"Armorel!" 

She shall glide the garden down, 
Treading softly, treading slow, 
And with silent feet shall go 
44 



Armorel 

Past the Mary-lilies white, 
Past the pansies, gold and brown, 
Grown for her delight. 
One white moth her guide shall be, 
She shall follow where he flies. 
Patiently, with dream-lit eyes; 
Past the thyme and savoury. 
Past the mystic asphodel, 
For the voices in her ear 
Call her softly, call her clear, — 
"Armorel!" 

Into valleys strange and dim. 
All unseen and all unknown. 
Fleetly shall she follow him, 
Fairy-led, alone. 
She shall hear within the brake 
Elfin crickets pipe and sing, 
While the elfin spiders make 
Sendal for her furnishing. 
Red as pimpernel. 
She shall see the dreams go by, 
Silver-pinioned, through the sky; 
45 



Armorel 

Where she wanders none may tell, 
But the voices come and go, 
Calling sweetly, calling low, 
"Armorel!'' 



46 



The Little Fauns to Proserpine 

Browner than the hazel-husk, swifter than the 
wind, 

Though you turn from heath and hill, we are 
hard behind, 

Singing, "Ere the sorrows rise, ere the gates un- 
close 

Bind above your wistful eyes the memory of a 
rose." 

Dark lacchus pipes the kine shivering from the 
whin, 

Wraps him in a she-goat's fell above the panther 
skin. 

Now we husk the corn for bread, turn the mill 
for hire. 

Hoof by hoof and head by head about the herds- 
man's fire. 

47 



The Little Fauns to Proserpine 

Ai, Adonis, where he gleams, slender and at rest. 
One has built a roof of dreams where the white 

doves nest. 
Ere they bring the wine-dark bowl, ere the gates 

unbar, 
Take, O take within your soul the shadow of a 

star. 

Now the vintage feast is done, now the melons 

glow 
Gold along the raftered thatch beneath a thread 

of snow. 
Dian's bugle bids the dawn sweep the upland 

clear, 
Where we snared the silken fawn, where we ran 

the deer. 

Through the dark reeds wet with rain, past the 

singing foam 
Went the light-foot Mysian maids, calling Hylas 

home. 
Syrinx felt the silver spell fold her at her need.' 
Hear, ere yet you say farewell, the wind along 
the reed. 

48 



The Little Fauns to Proserpine 

Golden as the earliest leaf loosened from the 
spray, 

Grave Alcestis drank of grief for her lord's delay. 

Ere you choose the bitter part, learn the change- 
less wrong, 

Bind above your breaking heart the echo of a 
song. 

Now the chestnut burrs are down; aspenshaws 

are pale; 
Now across the plunging reef reels the last red 

sail. 
Ere the wild, black horses cry, ere the night has 

birth, 
Take, ere yet you say good-bye, the love of all 

the earth. 



49 



Wanderlied 

O, WEST of all the westward roads that woo ye 

to their winding, 
O, south of all the southward ways that call ye 

to the sea, 
There's a little lonely garden that would pay 

ye for the finding, 
With a fairy-ring within it and an old thorn 

tree. 

O, there upon the brink of morn the thrushes 

would be calling, 
And the little lilting linnets, sure they'd wake 

me from the dead; 
With the lime trees all in blossom and the soft 

leaf-shadows falling, 
O, there I'd have a place at last to lay my head. 

O, would I had a swallow's wings, for then I'd 
fly and find it; 

50 



Wanderlied 

O, would I had a swallow's heart, for then I'd 

love to roam! 
With an orchard on the hillside and an old, old 

man to mind it, 
O, there I'd lift my lodge at last and make my 

home. 

O, there I'd see the tide come in along the whis- 
pering reaches, 

O, there I'd lie and watch the sails go shining 
to the west. 

And where the fir-wood follows on the wide un- 
swerving beaches, 

It's there I'd lay me down at last and take my 
rest. 



51 



To Alclthoe 

In your dim Greece of old, Alclthoe, 

Death like a lover sought and crowned you 

young, 
Between the olive orchards and the sea. 

When they had twined your myrtle-buds, and 

hung 
The stately cypress at your door, they said, 
"Alclthoe is dead, 

Before whose feet the flaming crocus sprung, 
For whom the red rose opened ere the prime; 
Those the gods love are taken before their 

time." — 

Ah ! why did no one, watching you alone, 
Snare your dead beauty in undying stone? 
The gold hair bound beneath its golden band, 
The milk-white poppies closed within your hand; 
That the harsh world a little space might keep 
The last, still, exquisite vision of your sleep. 
52 



The Sea Witch 

Endlessly fell her chestnut flowers, 
Faint snow throughout the honeyed dark; 
The myrtle spread his boughs to drink 
Deep draughts of salt from the sea's brink, 
And like a moon-dial swung her tower's 
Straight shadow o'er her warded park. 

From her calm coasts the galleons fled, 

The fisher steered him farther west, 

No port was hailed, no keel came home 

Across that pale, enchanted foam. 

But by her roof the thrushes fed 

And wandering swallows found their rest. 

The shadows touched her tenderly. 
The red beam lingered on her dress; 
The white gull and the osprey knew 
Her tower across the leagues of blue. 
The wild swan when he sought the sea 
Was laggard through her loveliness. 
53 



The Immortal 

Beauty is still immortal in our eyes; 

When sways no more the spirit-haunted reed, 

When the wild grape shall build 

No more her canopies, 

When blows no more the moon-grey thistle seed, 

When the last bell has lulled the white flocks 

home, 
When the last eve has stilled 
The wandering wing and touched the dying 

foam, 
When the last moon burns low, and, spark by 

spark, 
The little worlds die out along the dark, — 

Beauty that rosed the moth-wing, touched the 

land 
With clover-horns and delicate faint flowers, 
Beauty that bade the showers 
54 



The Immortal 

Beat on the violet's face, 

Shall hold the eternal heavens within their place 
And hear new stars come singing from God's 
hand. 



55 



Dawn 

O, KEEP the world forever at the dawn, 

Ere yet the opals, cobweb-strung, have dried. 

Ere yet too bounteous gifts have marred the morn 

Or fading stars have died. 

O, keep the eastern gold no wider than 

An angel's finger-span, 

And hush the increasing thunder of the sea 

To murmuring melody 

In those fair coves where tempests ne'er should be. 

Hold back the line of shoreward-sweeping surge 
And veil each deep sea-pool in pearlier mist. 
Ere yet the silver ripples on the verge 
Have turned to amethyst. 
Fling back the chariot of encroaching day 
And call the winds away 
Ere yet they sigh, and let the hastening sun 
Along his path in heaven no higher run, 
56 



Dawn 

But show through all the years his golden rim 
With shadows lingering dim 
Forever o'er the world awaiting him. 

Hold every bird with still and drowsy wing, 

That in the breathless hush no clamorous throat 

Shall break the peace that hangs on everything 

With shrill awakening note; 

Keep fast the half-seen beauties of the rose 

In undisturbed repose, 

Check all the iris buds where they unfold 

Impatient from their hold, 

And close the cowslips' cups of honeyed gold. 

Keep all things hushed, so hushed we seem to hear 
The sounds of low-swung clouds that sweep the 

trees ; 
Let now no harsher music reach the ear, 
No earthlier sounds than these, 
When whispering shadows move within the 

grass. 
And airy tremors pass 

57 



Dawn 

Through all the earth with life awakening 

thrilled, 
And so forever stilled, 
Too sweet in promise e'er to be fulfilled. 

O, keep the world forever at the dawn, 

Yet, keeping so, let nothing lifeless seem, 

But hushed, as if the miracle of morn 

Were trembling in its dream. 

Some shadowy moth may pass with downy flight 

And fade before the sight. 

While in the unlightened darkness of the wall 

The chirping crickets call; 

From forest pools where fragrant lilies are 

A breath shall pass afar, 

And o'er the crested pine shall hang one star. 



58 



Evening 

When the white iris folds the drowsing bee, 
When the first cricket wakes 
The fairy hosts of his enchanted brakes, 
When the dark moth has sought the lilac tree, 
And the young stars, like jasmine of the skies, 
Are opening on the silence, Lord, there lies 
Dew on Thy rose and dream upon mine eyes. 

Lovely the day, when life is robed in splendour, 
Walking the ways of God and strong with wine. 
But the pale eve is wonderful and tender, 
And night is more divine. 

Fold my faint olives from their shimmering plain, 
O shadow of sweet darkness fringed with rain. 
Give me tonight again. 

Give me today no more. I have bethought me 

Silence is more than laughter, sleep than tears. 

59 



Evening 

Sleep like a lover faithfully hath sought me 
Down the enduring years. 
Where stray the first white fatlings of the fold, 
Where the Lent-lily droops her earlier gold 
Sleep waits me as of old. 

Grant me sweet sleep, for light is unavailing 
When patient eyes grow weary of the day. 
Young lambs creep close and tender wings are 

failing, 
And I grow tired as they. 

Light as the long wave leaves the lonely shore. 
Our boughs have lost the bloom that morning 

bore. 
Give me today no more. 



60 



The Green MontK 

What of all the colours shall I bring you for 

your fairing, 
Fit to lay your fingers on, fine enough for you ? — 
Yellow for the ripened rye, white for ladies' 

wearing, 
Red for briar-roses, or the skies* own blue? 

Nay, for spring has touched the elm, spring has 

found the willow, 
Winds that call the swallow home sway the 

boughs apart; 
Green shall all my curtains be, green shall be my 

pillow, 
Green I'll wear within my hair, and green upon 

my heart. 



61 



Song of Late September 

In this irised net I keep 

All the moth-winged winds of sleep, 

In this basket woven of willow 

I have silk-weed for your pillow. 

In this pouch of plaited reeds 

Stars I bear for silver beads. 

Choose my pippins for your money, 

Reddening pears as smooth as honey, 

Golden grapes and apricots, 

Herbs from well-grown garden plots; 

Basil, balm, and savoury. 

All sweet-smelling things there be. 

Fruits a many and flowers a few, — 

Fiery dahlias drooped in dew, 

Wood-grown asters faint as smoke. 

Flame of maple, frond of oak. 

In this box of foreign woods 
I have delicate woven goods; 
62 



Song of Late Scptcmbei! 

Orient laces light as mist, 
Amber veils and amethyst, 
Ivory pins like hardened milk, 
Cloaks of silver-shining silk 
Wrought with strange embroideries 
Of peacock plumes and rose-berries. 
Buy a king's crown lost of old, 
Dark with sardius sunk in gold. 
Buy my gloves of spiders spun, 
Cool as water, warm as sun; 
Buy my shoon of yellow leathers 
Lined with fur and owlet feathers; 
Buy a chain of emerald stones 
Or scarlet seeds or cedar cones. 
All sweet, delicate things there be 
Honest folk may buy of me. 
Ere the earliest thrush has flown 
In my eyes the dawns are shown. 
On my lips the summer lingers. 
Rain has jewelled all my fingers; 
In my hand the crickets sing, 
And the moon's my golden ring. 



63 



Frost Song 

Here where the bee slept and the orchis lifted 
Her honeying pipes of pearl, her velvet lip, 
Only the swart leaves of the oak lie drifted 
In sombre fellowship. 

Here where the flame-weed set the lands alight, 
Lies the bleak upland, webbed and crowned with 
white. 

Build high the logs, O love, and in thine eyes 
Let me believe the summer lingers late. 
We shall not miss her passive pageantries, 
We are not desolate. 

When on the sill, across the window bars. 
Kind winter flings her flowers and her stars. 



64 



Dream River 

Wind-silvered willows hedge the stream, 

And all within is hushed and cool. 

The water, in an endless dream, 

Goes sliding down from pool to pool. 

And every pool a sapphire is. 

From shadowy deep to sunlit edge, 

Ribboned around with irises 

And cleft with emerald spears of sedge. 

O, every morn the winds are stilled, 
The sunlight falls in amber bars. 
O, every night the pools are filled 
With silver brede of shaken stars. 
O, every morn the sparrow flings 
His elfin trills athwart the hush, 
And here unseen at eve there sings 
One crystal-throated hermit-thrush. 



65 



Swallows 

O LITTLE hearts, beat home, beat home, 

Here is no place to rest. 

Night darkens on the falling foam 

And on the fading west. 

O little wings, beat home, beat home. 

Love may no longer roam. 

O, Love has touched the fields of wheat 
And Love has crowned the corn. 
And we must follow Love's white feet 
Through all the ways of morn. 
Through all the silver roads of air 
We pass and have no care. 

The silver roads of Love are wide, 
O winds that turn, O stars that guide, 
Sweet are the ways that Love has trod 
Through the clear skies that reach to God. 
But in the cliff-grass Love builds deep 
A place where wandering wings may sleep. 
66 



The Pool 

Come with me, follow me, swift as a moth, 

Ere the wood-doves waken. 

Lift the long leaves and look down, look down 

Where the light is shaken, 

Amber and brown. 

On the woven ivory roots of the reed, 

On a floating flower and a weft of weed 

And a feather of froth. 

Here in the night all wonders are. 

Lapped in the lift of the ripple's svinng, — 

A silver shell and a shaken star, 

And a white moth's wing. 

Here the young moon when the mists unclose 

Swims like the bud of a golden rose. 

I would live like an elf where the wild grapes 

cling, 
I would chase the thrush 

6'7 



The Pool 

From the red rose-berries. 

All the day long I would laugh and swing 

With the black choke-cherries. 

I would shake the bees from the milkweed 

blooms, 
And cool, O cool, 

Night after night I would leap in the pool, 
And sleep with the fish in the roots of the rush. 
Clear, O clear my dreams should be made 
Of emerald light and amber shade. 
Of silver shallows and golden glooms. 
Sweet, O sweet my dreams should be 
As the dark, sweet water enfolding me 
Safe as a blind shell under the sea. 



68 



O Silver Rose 

The dark hour turns so slowly and so sweet, 
The last still hour soft-fallen from the stars. 
To-morrow I may kneel and touch thy feet, 
O Rose of all Shiraz. 

Lay wide thine amorous lattice to the south, 
O Silver Rose, when roses breathe thy name, 
And thou at dawn shalt feel upon thy mouth 
The kiss I dared not claim. 

Discrowned, dishonoured, reft of pride and 

power, 
From the red battle where they hailed me lord, 

Silver Rose, O sweet Pomegranate Flower, 

1 turn me to their sword. 

Life hath so held me to an empty part, 

Life hath so snared me, bound and made me 

blind. 
To-morrow I may rest upon thy heart, 
For death shall prove more kind. 
69 



The Bridegroom of Cana 

"There ivas a marriage in Cana of Galilee. . . . 
And both Jesus ivas called, and His disciples, to the 
marriage." 

Veil thine eyes, O beloved, my spouse, 
Turn them away. 

Lest in their light my life withdrawn 
Dies as a star, as a star in the day, 
As a dream in the dawn. 

Slenderly hang the olive leaves 
Sighing apart; 

The rose and silver doves in the eaves 
With a murmur of music bind our house. 
Honey and wine in thy words are stored. 
Thy lips are bright as the edge of a sword 
That hath found my heart. 
That hath found my heart. 
70 



The Bridegroom of Cana 

Sweet, I have waked from a dream of thee, — 

And of Him. 

He who came when the songs were done. 

From the net of thy smiles my heart went free 

And the golden lure of thy love grew dim. 

I turned to them asking, "Who is He, 

Royal and sad, who comes to the feast 

And sits Him down in the place of the least?" 

And they said, "He is Jesus, the carpenter's son." 

Hear how my harp on a single string 

Murmurs of love. 

Down in the fields the thrushes sing 

And the lark is lost in the light above, 

Lost in the infinite, glowing whole, 

As I in thy soul. 

As I in thy soul. 

Love, I am fain for thy glowing grace 

As the pool for the star, as the rain for the rill. 

Turn to me, trust to me, mirror me 

As the star in the pool, as the cloud in the sea. 

Love, I looked awhile in His face 

And was still. 

71 



The Bridegroom of Cana 

The shaft of the dawn strikes clear and sharp: 

Hush, my harp. 

Hush, my harp, for the day is begun, 

And the lifting, shimmering flight of the swallow 

Breaks in a curve on the brink of morn, 

Over the sycamores, over the corn. 

Cling to me, cleave to me, prison me 

As the mote in the flame, as the shell in the sea, 

For the winds of the dawn say, "Follow, follow 

Jesus Bar- Joseph, the carpenter's son." 



^3 



A Mother in Egypt 

"About midnight ivill I go out into the midst 
of Egypt: and all the firstborn in the land of Egypt 
shall die, from the firstborn of Pharaoh that sitteth 
upon the throne, even unto the firstborn of the maid- 
servant that is behind the mill." 

Is the noise of grief in the palace over the river 

For this silent one at my side? 

There came a hush in the night, and he rose w^ith 

his hands a-quiver 
Like lotus petals adrift on the swing of the tide. 
O small soft hands, the day groweth old for 

sleeping ! 
O small still feet, rise up, for the hour is late! 
Rise up, my son, for I hear them mourning and 

weeping 
In the temple down by the gate. 

Hushed is the face that was wont to brighten with 

laughter 
When I sang at the mill, 
73 



A Mother in Egypt 

And silence unbroken shall greet the sorrowful 
dawns hereafter, 

The house shall be still. 

Voice after voice takes up the burden of wail- 
ing,— 

Do you heed, do you hear? — in the high-priest's 
house by the wail ; 

But mine is the grief, and their sorrow is all un- 
availing. 

Will he wake at their call? 

Something I saw of the broad, dim wings half 
folding 

The passionless brow. 

Something I saw of the sword the shadowy hands 
were holding, — 

What matters it now? 

I held you close, dear face, as I knelt and bark- 
ened 

To the wind that cried last night like a soul in sin, 

When the broad, bright stars dropped down and 
the soft sky darkened, 

And the Presence moved therein. 
74 



A Mother in Egypt 

I have heard men speak in the market-place of the 

city, 
Low voiced, in a breath, 
Of a god who is stronger than ours, and who 

knows not changing nor pity, 
Whose anger is death. 

Nothing I know of the lords of the outland races. 
But Amun is gentle and Hathor the Mother is 

mild, 
And who would descend from the light of the 

peaceful places 
To war on a child ? 

Yet here he lies, with a scarlet pomegranate petal 

Blown down on his cheek. 

The slow sun sinks to the sand like a shield of 

some burnished metal. 
But he does not speak. , 

I have called, I have sung, but neither will hear 

nor waken ; 
So lightly, so whitely he lies in the curve of my 

arm, 

75 



A Mother in Egypt 

Like a feather let fall from the bird that the 

arrow hath taken. 
Who could see him, and harm? 

"The swallow flies home to her sleep in the eaves 

of the altar, 
And the crane to her nest," — 
So do we sing o'er the mill, and why, ah, why 

should I falter, 
Since he goes to his rest? 
Does he play in their flowers as he played among 

these with his mother? 
Do the gods smile downward and love him and 

give him their care? 
Guard him well, O ye gods, till I come ; lest the 

wrath of that Other 
Should reach to him there! 



76 



St. Yves' Poor 

Jeffik was there, and Matthieu,and brown Bran, 
Warped in old wars and babbling of the sword, 
And Jannedik, a white rose pinched and paled 
With the world's frosts, and many more beside, 
Lamed, rheumed and palsied, aged, impotent 
Of all but hunger and blind lifted hands. 
I set the doors wide at the given hour, 
Took the great baskets piled with bread, the fish 
Yet silvered of the sea, the curds of milk, 
And called them, Brethren, brake, and blest, and 
gave. 

For O, my Lord, the house dove knows her nest 
Above my window builded from the rain; 
In the brown mere the heron finds her rest, 
But these shall seek in vain. 

And O, my Lord, the thrush may fold her wing, 
The curlew seek the long lift of the seas, 
77 



St. Yves' Poor 

The wild swan sleep amid his journeying, — 
There is no rest for these. 

Thy dead are sheltered ; housed and warmed they 

wait 
Under the golden fern, the falling foam; 
But these, Thy living, wander desolate 
And have not any home. 

I called them. Brethren, brake, and blest, and 

gave. 
Old Jeffik had her withered hand to show, 
Young Jannedik had dreamed of death, and Bran 
Would tell me wonders wrought on fields of war, 
When Michael and his warriors rode the storm, 
And all the heavens were thrilled with clanging 

spears, — 
Ah, God, my poor, my poor. — Till there came 

one 
Wrapped in foul rags, who caught me by the robe, 
And pleaded, "Bread, my father." 

In his .hand 
I laid the last loaf of the daily dole, 
Saw on the palm a red wound like a star, 
78 



St. Yves' Poor 

And bade him, "Let me bind it." 

"These my wounds," 
He answered softly, "daily dost thou bind." 
And I, "My son, I have not seen thy face. 
But thy bruised feet have trodden on my heart. 
I will get water for thee." 

"These my hurts," 
Again he answered, "daily dost thou wash." 
And I once more, "My son, I know thee not, 
But the bleak wind blows bitter from the sea. 
And even the gorse is perished. Rest thou here." 
And he again, "My rest is in thy heart. 
I take from thee as I have given to thee. 
Dost thou not know Me, Breton?" 

I,— "My Lord!"— 

A scent of lilies on the cold sea-wind, 
A thin, white blaze of wings, a face of flame 
Over the gateway, and the vision passed. 
And there were only Matthieu and brown Bran, 
And the young girl, the foam-white Jannedik, 
Wondering to see their father rapt from them, 
And Jeffik weeping o'er her withered hand. 
79 



The Little Sister of the Prophet 

"// there arise among you a prophet or dreamer . . .** 

I HAVE left a basket of dates 

In the cool dark room that is under the vine, 

Some curds set out in two little crimson plates 

And a flask of the amber wine, 

And cakes most cunningly beaten 

Of savoury herbs, and spice, and the delicate 

wheaten 
Flour that is best, 
And all to lighten his spirit and sweeten his rest. 

This morning he cried, "Awake, 

And see what the wonderful grace of the Lord 

hath revealed!" 
And we ran for his sake. 
But 'twas only the dawn outspread o'er our 

father's field, 

80 



The Little Sister of the Prophet 

And the house of the potter white in the valley 

below. 
But his hands were upraised to the east and he 

cried to us, "So 
Ye may ponder and read 
The strength and the beauty of God out-rolled 

in a fiery screed!" 

Then the little brown mother smiled, 

As one does on the words of a well-loved child. 

And, "Son," she replied, "have the oxen been 

watered and fed? 
For work is to do, though the skies be never so 

red. 
And already the first sweet hours of the day are 

spent." 
And he sighed, and went. 

Will he come from the byre 

With his head all misty with dreams, and his 

eyes on fire, 
Shaking us all with the weight of the words of 

his passion? 

8i 



The Little Sister of the Prophet 

I will give him raisins instead of dates, 
And wreathe young leaves on the little red plates. 
I will put on my new head-tyre, 
And braid my hair in a comelier fashion. 
Will he note? Will he mind? 
Will he touch my cheek as he used to, and laugh 
and be kind? 



82 



Pieter Marinus 

Lord, I have known all fruits of this thy world ; 
Like Solomon king, I have been fain of all, — 
War, women, and wine, — but mine was spirit oi 

Nantes. 
And now, O Lord, I'm old and fain for Thee, 
But, Lord, my soul's so grimed and weather- 
worn. 
So warped and wrung with all iniquities, 
Piracies, brawls, and cheated revenues. 
There's not a saint but would look twice at it. 

So, when my time comes, send no angels down 
With lutes, and harps, and foreign instruments, 
To pipe old Pieter's spirit up to heaven 
Past his tall namesake sturdy at his post. 

But let me lie awhile in these Thy seas. 
Let the soft Gulf Stream and the long South 
Drift, 

83 



Pieter Marinus 

And the swift tides that rim the Labrador, 
Beat on my soul and wash it clean again. 

And when Thy waves have smoothed me of my 

sins, 
White as the sea-mew or the wind-spun foam. 
Clean as the clear-cut images of stars 
That swing between the swells, — then, then, O 

Lord, 
Lean out, lean out from heaven and call me thus, 
"Come up, thou soul of Pieter Marinus," 
And I'll go home. 



84 



In the Gardens of Shushan 

Be pitiful! Her lips have touched this cool 
Clear stream that sets the long green leaves astir. 
The very doves that dream beside the pool 
Sang their soft notes to her. 

For her these doors that claim the amorous south, 
Bound in red bronze and stayed with cedar-wood. 
And here the bees sought honey from her mouth, 
So like a flower she stood. 

For her the globed pomegranates grew, and all 
Sweet savoury fruits rose perfect from their 

flower. 
Here has her soul known silence and the fall 
Of each enchanted hour. 

Under her feet all beauty was laid low, 
In her deep eyes all beauty was made clear. 
85 



In the Gardens of Shushan 

When the king called her through the evening 

glow, 
"O Vashti, I am here!" 

Still the sweet wells return to me her face, 
Still her lost name on every wind is blown. 
The shadows and the silence of this place 
Are hers alone. 



86 



Pere Lalemant 

I LIFT the Lord on high, 

Under the murmuring hemlock boughs, and see 

The small birds of the forest lingering by 

And making melody. 

These are mine acolytes and these my choir, 

And this mine altar in the cool green shade, 

Where the wild soft-eyed does draw nigh 

Wondering, as in the byre 

Of Bethlehem the oxen heard Thy cry 

And saw Thee, unafraid. 

My boatmen sit apart, 

Wolf-eyed, wolf-sinewed, stiller than the trees. 
Help me, O Lord, for very slow of heart 
And hard of faith are these. 
Cruel are they, yet Thy children. Foul are they, 
Yet wert Thou born to save them utterly. 
Then make me as I pray, 
87 



Pere Lalemant 

Just to their hates, kind to their sorrows, wise 
After their speech, and strong before their free 
Indomitable eyes. 

Do the French lilies reign 

Over Mont Royal and Stadacona still? 

Up the St. Lawrence comes the spring again, 

Crowning each southward hill 

And blossoming pool with beauty, while I roam 

Far from the perilous folds that are my home, 

There where we built St. Ignace for our needs, 

Shaped the rough roof tree, turned the first sweet 

sod, 
St. Ignace and St. Louis, little beads 
On the rosary of God. 

Pines shall Thy pillars be, 

Fairer than those Sidonian cedars brought 

By Hiram out of Tyre, and each birch-tree 

Shines like a holy thought. 

But come no worshippers; shall I confess, 

St. Francis-like, the birds of the wilderness? 

O, with Thy love my lonely head uphold. 



Pere Lalemant 

A wandering shepherd I, who hath no sheep; 
A wandering soul, who hath no scrip, nor gold. 
Nor anywhere to sleep. 

My hour of rest is done; 

On the smooth ripple lifts the long canoe; 

The hemlocks murmur sadly as the sun 

Slants his dim arrows through. 

Whither I go I know not, nor the way. 

Dark with strange passions, vexed with heathen 

charms. 
Holding I know not what of life or death; 
Only be Thou beside me day by day, 
Thy rod my guide and comfort, underneath 
Thy everlasting arms. 



89 



Bega 

From the clouded belfry calling, 
Hear my soft ascending swells; 
Hear my notes like swallows falling; 
I am Bega, least of bells. 
When great Turkeful rolls and rings 
All the storm-touched turret swings, 
Echoing battle, loud and long. 
When great Tatwin wakening roars 
To the far-off shining shores, 
All the seamen know his song. 
I am Bega, least of bells: 
In my throat my message swells. 
I with all the winds a-thrill, 
Murmuring softly, murmuring still, 
"God around me, God above me, 
God to guard me, God to love me." 

I am Bega, least of bells. 
Weaving wonder, wind-born spells. 
90 



Bega 

High above the morning mist, 
Wreathed in rose and amethyst, 
Still the dreams of music float 
Silver from my silver throat, 
Whispering beauty, whispering peace. 
When great Tatw^in's golden voice 
Bids the listening land rejoice, 
When great Turkeful rings and rolls 
Thunder down to trembling souls. 
Then my notes like curlews flying, 
Lifting, falling, sinking, sighing, 
Softly answer, softly cease. 
I with all the airs at play 
Murmuring sweetly, murmuring say, 
"God around me, God above me, 
God to guard me, God to love me." 



91 



In a Monastery Garden 

Over the long salt ridges 

And the gold sea-poppies between, 

They builded them wild-briar hedges, 

A church and a cloistered green. 

And when they were done with their praises, 

And the tides on the Fore beat slow, 

Under the white cliff-daisies 

They laid them down in a row. 

Porphyry, Paul, and Peter, 
Jasper, and Joachim, — 
Was the psaltery music sweeter 
Than the throat of the thrush to him? 
Tired of their drones and their dirges, 
Where the young cliff-rabbits play, 
Wet with the salt of the surges, 
They laid them down for a day. 
92 



In a Monastery Garden 

One may not call to the other 
There on the rim of the deep, 
Only the youngest brother 
Lies and smiles in his sleep. 
When the wild swan's shadow passes, 
When the ripe fruit falls to the sod, 
When the faint moth flies in the grasses 
He dreams in the hands of God. 

Here for his hopes there follow 
The violets one by one. 
The dove is here and the swallow 
And the young leaf seeking the sun. 
And here when the last sail darkens 
And the last lone path is trod, 
Under the rose he barkens 
And smiles in the eyes of God. 



93 



A Child's Song 

When the Child played in Galilee, 
He had no wine-clear maple leaves, 
No west winds singing of the sea 
Over the frosted sheaves; 
But with pale myrrh His head was bound 
And crowned. 

When the Child lived in Nazareth, 
He watched the golden anise seed, 
With daisies white in the wind's breath, 
And hyssop flowering for His need, 
While the late crocus from the sod 
Flamed for her God. 

When the Child dwelt in Palestine, 
Over the brooks the willow grew, 
Olive and aspen, oak and pine, 
Sweet sycamore and yew. 
But one dark Tree of all the seven 
Stood high as heaven. 
94 



A Child's Song of Christmas 

My counterpane is soft as silk, 
My blankets white as creamy milk. 

The hay was soft to Him, I know, 

Our little Lord of long ago. 

Above the roofs the pigeons fly 

In silver wheels across the sky. 

The stable-doves they cooed to them, 
Mary and Christ in Bethlehem. 

Bright shines the sun across the drifts. 
And bright upon my Christmas gifts. 

They brought Him incense, myrrh, and gold, 
Our little Lord who lived of old. 

O, soft and clear our mother sings 
Of Christmas joys and Christmas things. 
God's holy angels sang to them, 
Mary and Christ in Bethlehem. 
95 



A Child's Song of Christmas 

Our hearts they hold all Christmas dear, 
And earth seems sweet and heaven seems near, 
O, heaven was in His sight, I know, 
That little Child of long ago. 



96 



Youth's End 

I HAVE held my life too nigh, 

Spring and harvest, love and laughter, smile and 

sigh. 
I should have held it lightly, like a young leaf 

rent in haste 
From the willow in the waste. 
A moment in my fingers; then it fluttered, then 

it fled, 
A little flame of red, 
To the God-beholding desert where the soundless 

years go by, — 
I have held my life too high. 

I have held my death too dear, 

Shame or honour, peace or peril, pride or fear. 

I should have held it softly, as the little cloud 

that flies 
When the heron takes the skies. 
97 



Youth's End 

I should have held it kindly as a passing whisper, 

—"Friend, 
Here's the end, 
Here the silver cord is loosened and the bowl is 

broken here," — 
But I held my death too dear. 



98 



Jasper's Song 

Who goes down through the slim green sallows, 
Soon, so soon ? 

Dawn is hard on the heels of the moon, 
But never a lily the day-star knows 
Is white, so white as the one who goes 
Armed and shod, when the hyacinths darken. 
Then hark, O harken ! 

And rouse the moths from the deep rose-mallows, 
Call the wild hares down from the fallows. 
Gather the silk of the young sea-poppies, 
The bloom of the thistle, the bells of the foam ; 
Bind them all with a brown owl's feather, 
Snare the winds in a golden tether. 
Chase the clouds from the gipsy's weather, and 
follow, O follow the white spring home. 

Who goes past with the wind that chilled us, 
Late, so late? 

Fortune leans on the farmer's gate, 
99 



Jasper's Song 

Watching the round sun low in the south, 
With a plume in his cap and a rose at his mouth. 
But O, for the folk who were free and merry 
There's never so much as a red rose-berry. 
But old earth's warm as the wine that filled us, 
And the fox and the little grey mouse shall build 

us 
Walls of the sweet green gloom of the cedar, 
A roof of bracken, a curtain of whin; 
One more rouse ere the bowl reposes 
Low in the dust of our lost red roses, 
One more song ere the cold night closes, and 

welcome, O welcome the dark death in! 



100 



The Hillman's Lass 

Over the field where the grass is cool, 

(Follow the road who must!) 

With a song for the beech and the brown pool, 

And the noiseless tread in the dust, 

With a laugh for the lazy hours that go, 

And the folk who pass us by. 

(The trees they grow so broad, so low, 

They shut me from the sky.) 

Here be strawberries wild and sweet, 

(Follow the road who may!) 

And here's a rest for a bairn's feet 

And a kiss at the close o' day. 

And here's a cloud from the shining sea 

Like a white moth in the night. 

(On the edge o' the barley field, may be 

The stars would show more bright.) 

Cut me a flute where the reeds are brown. 
( Follow the road who will ! ) 
lOI 



The Hillman's Lass 

O, I'll dress you fair in a green gown 

And a cloak that is finer still. 

Your sleeves shall be o* the fairies' lawn, 

Your shoon as red as the rose. 

(Do you think that the wind which wakes at 

dawn 
Will bring us a breath o' the snows?) 

O, the world's wide, and the world is long. 

(Follow the road who may!) 

And here's a lilt of the wild song 

The Romany pipers play. 

And "Mine," it sings, "is the moon's shield. 

And the cloak o' the cloud is mine." 

(Do you think that the lowland clover field 

Is sweet as the upland pine?) 



I02 



The Shepherd Boy 

When the red moon hangs over the fold, 
And the cypress shadow is rimmed with gold, 

little sheep, I have laid me low, 
My face against the old earth's face, 
Where one by one the white moths go, 
And the brown bee has his sleeping place. 
And then I have whispered, Mother, hear, 
For the owls are awake and the night is near, 
And whether I lay me near or far 

No lips shall kiss me. 
No eye shall miss me. 
Saving the eye of a cold white star. 

And the old brown woman answers mild, 
Rest you safe on my heart, O child. 
Many a shepherd, many a king, 

1 fold them safe from their sorrowing. 
Gwenever's heart is bound with dust, 

103 



The Shepherd Boy 

Tristram dreams of the dappled doe, 

But the bugle moulders, the blade is rust; 

Stilled are the trumpets of Jericho, 

And the tired men sleep by the walls of Troy. 

Little and lonely. 

Knowing me only. 

Shall I not comfort you, shepherd-boy? 

When the wind wakes in the apple-tree. 

And the shy hare feeds on the wild fern stem, 

I say my prayers to the Trinity, — 

The prayers that are three and the charms that 

are seven 
To the angels guarding the towers of heaven, — 
And I lay my head on her raiment's hem. 
Where the young grass darkens the strawberry 

star, 
Where the iris buds and the bellworts are. 
All night I hear her breath go by 
Under the arch of the empty sky. 
All night her heart beats under my head, 
And I lie as still as the ancient dead, 
104 



The Shepherd Boy 

Warm as the young lambs there with the sheep. 

I and no other, 

Close to my Mother, 

Fold my hands in her hands, and sleep. 



105 



Duna 

When I was a little lad 

With folly on my lips, 

Fain was I for journeying 

All the seas in ships. 

But now across the southern swell, 

Every dawn I hear 

The little streams of Duna 

Running clear. 

When I was a young man. 
Before my beard was grey, 
All to ships and sailormen 
I gave my heart away. 
But I'm weary of the sea-wind, 
I'm weary of the foam, 
And the little stars of Duna 
Call me home. 



1 06 



My Father He Was a Fisherman 

My father he was a fisherman, 
That wrought at the break o' day, 
And hither and thither the long tides ran 
r the long blue bay. 

"The tides go up and the tides go down, 
But what do you know of the sea?" 
Her voice, i' the long grey streets o' the town, 
Is singing to me. 

"What do you know of the sails at dawn, 
What of the shell-white foam?" 
Cheerly and sweet, from a world withdrawn, 
They are calling me home. 

"What is the grief you fain would tell 
When your eyes are turned on me?" 
O, well it was taught and I learned it well,- 
The grief o' the sea. 

107 



My Father He Was a Fisherman 

"Where do you travel and where do you sleep, 

Where shall you take your rest?" 

At the inn that shelters my father, deep 

r the seas o' the west. 



1 08 



Jennifer's Lad 

Sweet Jennifer came calling me 

Along the shining beach. 

"There's green upon the hawthorn tree, 

There's bloom upon the peach. 

O, April's found the upland larch, 

The hazel in the hollow," — 

But louder was the snare-drum with its "March, 

march, march !" 
And clearer called the bugle, "Will you follow?" 

Young Jennifer came seeking me 

With love upon her lips. 

"O, all kind angels keep the sea 

And fortune guard the ships. 

The Autumn winds have rent the larch, 

The south has won the swallow," — 

But clearer beat the snare-drum with its "March, 

march, march!" 
And sweeter sang the bugle, "Will you follow?" 
109 



Three Island Songs 

After the wind In the wood, 

Peace, and the night. 

After the bond and the brood, 

Flight. 

After the height and the hush 

Where the wild hawk swings, 

Heart of the earth-loving thrush 

Shaken with wings. 

After the bloom and the leaf 

Rain on the nest. 

After the splendour and grief, 

Rest. 

After the hills and the far 

Glories and gleams. 

Cloud, and the dawn of a star, 

And dreams. 



O THE grey rocks of the islands and the hemlock 
green above them, 

no 



Three Island Songs 

The foam beneath the wild rose bloom, the star 

above the shoal. 
When I am old and weary I'll wake my heart 

to love them, 
For the blue ways of the islands are wound about 

my soul. 

Here in the early even when the young grey dew 
is falling, 

And the king-heron seeks his mate beyond the 
loneliest wild. 

Still your heart in the twilight, and you'll hear 
the river calling 

Through all her outmost islands to seek her last- 
born child. 



I SAT among the green leaves, and heard the nuts 

falling. 
The broad red butterflies were gold against the 

sun, 
But in between the silence and the sweet birds 

calling 
The nuts fell one by one. 
Ill 



Three Island Songs 

Why should they fall and the year but half over? 
Why should sorrow seek me and I so young and 

kind? 
The leaf is on the bough and the dew is on the 

clover, 
But the green nuts are falling in the wind. 

O, I gave my lips away and all my soul behind 

them. 
Why should trouble follow and the quick tears 

start? 
The little birds may love and fly with only God 

to mind them, 
But the green nuts are falling on my heart. 



112 



Serenade 

Dark is the iris meadow, 

Dark is the ivory tower, 

And lightly the young moth's shadow 

Sleeps on the passion-flower. 

Gone are our day's red roses. 
So lovely and lost and few, 
But the first star uncloses 
A silver bud in the blue. 

Night, and a flame in the embers 
Where the seal of the years was set, — 
When the almond-bough remembers 
How shall my heart forget? 



113 



The Lovers of Marchaid 

Dominic came riding down, sworded, straight 

and splendid, 
Drave his hilt against her door, flung a golden 

chain. 
Said: "I'll teach your lips a song sweet as his 

that's ended, 
Ere the white rose call the bee, the almond flower 

again." 

But he only saw her head bent within the gloom 
Over heaps of bridal thread bright as apple-bloom, 
Silver silk like rain that spread across the driving 
loom. 

Dreaming Fanch, the cobbler's son, took his tools 

and laces, 
Wrought her shoes of scarlet dye, shoes as pale 

as snow; 

114 



The Lovers of Marchaid 

"They shall lead her wildrose feet all the fairy 

paces 
Danced along the road of love, the road such feet 

should go" — 



But he only saw her eyes turning from his gift 
Out towards the silver skies where the white 

clouds drift, 
Where the wild gerfalcon flies, where the last 

sails lift. 



Bran has built his homestead high where the hills 

may shield her, 
Where the young bird waits the spring, where the 

dawns are fair. 
Said: "I'll name my trees for her, since I may not 

yield her 

Stars of morning for her feet, of evening for her 

hair." 

115 



The Lovers of Marchaid 

But he did not see them ride, seven dim sail and 

more, 
All along the harbour-side, white from shore to 

shore, 
Nor heard the voices of the tide crying at her 

door, 

Jean-Marie has touched his pipe down beside the 

V river 
When the young fox bends the fern, when the 

folds are still. 
Said : "I send her all the gifts that my love may 

give her, — 
Golden notes like golden birds to seek her at my 

will." 

But he only found the waves, heard the sea-gull's 

cry, 

In and out the ocean caves, underneath the sky, 
All above the wind-washed graves where dead sea- 
men lie. 



ii6 



The House's Setting 

Here is no hedge of yewe to hold in grief e, 
No cypresse nor long willow for despaire. 
But the young birch displayes his cheerfulle leaf 
In tracerie most faire. 

Where the sunne falls at morn stand poplars 

seven 
Where freely I of all sweete joyes may borrowe, 
An elm that lifts his prayerfulle arms to Heaven, 
And three tall pines for sorrowe. 



117 



Deus Misereatur 

Pleasant the ways whereon our feet were led, 
Sweet the young hills, the valleys of content, 
But now the hours of dew and dream have fled. 
Lord, we are spent. 

We did not heed Thy warning in the skies, 
We have not heard Thy voice nor known Thy 

fold; 
But now the world is darkening to our eyes. 
Lord, we grow old. 

Now the sweet stream turns bitter with our tears, 
Now dies the star we followed in the west. 
Now are we sad and ill at ease with years. 
Lord, we would rest. 

Lo, our proud lamps are emptied of their light, 
Weary our hands to toil, our feet to roam ; 
Our day is past and swiftly falls Thy night. 
Lord, lead us home. 

ii8 



Fame 

Have I played fellowship with night, to see 
The allied armies break our gates at dawn 
And let our general in? By Bacchus, no! 
I have not left my stall, sir, I'm too poor 
For lazy prentices to hand my wares, — 
Such delicate chains, like amber linked with love! 
Such silvered pins, like hate to let love out! — 
What know I? But my Guidarello went 
To the fountain of the coppersmiths, when first 
The double cypress showed upon the east. 
He's home, poor fool, hoarse as a moulting bird 
From loud throat-loyalty. 

"The banners burn 
Still in my soul," he cries, "as then in air. 
The grey air, the grey houses, and the flowers, 
The flowers, my father! Thyme and twisted 

sweets 
From the blue hills I dream of, and thin bells 
Of faery folds ; pomegranates spun in flame, 
119 



Fame 

Flame of red rose and golden, flame of sound 
Blown from hot-throated trumpets, and the flame 
Of her proud eyes ! — 

She rode beside the duke 
In velvet coloured as a pansy is 
And threaded round with gold. Her mantle 

strained 
On the warm wind behind her, golden too, 
Gold as the spires of lilies, and her hair 
And her dark eyes were danced across with 

gold." 

Gold, gold, poor fool, and she was bought 
for gold, 
A golden grief to ride at a duke's rein. 
Eh well! The great grow love-in-idleness 
About their courts. Did Guidarello see 
Our general too? "A little, tired old man, 
Clad in worn sables with a silver star," 
He told me, "fain to find his house and sleep." 



120 



Kwannon 

Ktuannon, the Japanese goddess of mercy, ts 
represented ivith many hands, typifying generosity 
and kindness. In one of these hands she is supposed 
to hold an axe, nvhereiJjith she severs the threads of 
human lives. 

I AM the ancient one, the many-handed, 

The merciful am I. 

Here where the black pine bends above the sea 

They bring their gifts to me — 

Spoil of the foreshore where the corals lie, 

Fishes of ivory, and amber stranded, 

And carven beads 

Green as the fretted fringes of the weeds. 

Age after age, I watch the long sails pass. 
Age after age, I see them come once more 
Home, as the grey-winged pigeon to the grass, 
The white crane to the shore. 
Goddess am I of heaven and this small town 

121 



Kwannon 

Above the beaches brown. 

And here the children bring me cakes, and 

flowers, 
And all the strange sea-treasures that they find, 
For "She," they say, "the Merciful, is ours, 
And she," they say, "is kind." 

Camphor and wave-worn sandalwood for burn- 
ing 
They bring to me alone, 
Shells that are veined like irises, and those 
Curved like the clear bright petals of a rose. 
Wherefore an hundredfold again returning 
I render them their own — 

Full-freighted nets that flash among the foam, 
Laughter and love, and gentle eyes at home, 
Cool of the night, and the soft air that swells 
My silver temple bells. 

Winds of the spring, the little flowers that shine 
Where the young barley slopes to meet the pine, 
Gold of the charlock, guerdon of the rain, 
I give to them again. 

122 



Kwannon 

Yet though the fishing boats return full-laden 
Out of the broad blue east, 
Under the brown roofs pain is their hand- 
maiden, 
And mourning is their feast. 
Yea, though my many hands are raised to bless, 
I am not strong to give them happiness. 

Sorrow comes swiftly as the swallow flying, 
O, little lives, that are so quickly done! 
Peace is my raiment, mercy is my breath, 
I am the gentle one. 

When they are tired of sorrow and of sighing 
I give them death. 



123 



Mons Angelorum 

Moses, Joshua, the Three Angels of the Uni- 
verse 

Evening: a slope of Pisgah 

Moses — Our span of life is lessening with the 

years, 
Our little sun rolls swiftlier to its end 
Among the eternal stars. It is a feather 
Blown from a careless lip into the dark, 
A fallen feather, the lily of a day, 
Brimming with blood and tears instead of 

dew. 
And dying with its sleep. Having known 

life. 
Having known day, I pass into the night; 
Having long spoken with God, I hold my 

peace ; 
Having long held the sword, I lay it down, 
124 



Mons Angelorum 

And the new watch relieves me. Is all 
well? 

Joshua — O father of my soul, I cannot tell. 
The burden of the Lord is heavy on me, 
And I am broken beneath it. 

Moses — Since I knew, 

All my desires and cares have gone from me. 
Rather I think on old forgotten things — 
A song within the temple-court, to her, 
Isis, the Lady of Love. How white she sat 
Above the crowded gate! I was a boy: 
I ran and laid a lotus on her knees, 
Dreaming she smiled in answer. Ah, those 

dreams 
Far on the shining level of the sands, — 
Thebes and old Tanis builded of a cloud ! 
The reeds beside the river, those sweet trees 
Full of warm buds that ripen and unclose 
At eve; the barges passing on the Nile 
Like golden water-fowl with ivory wings; 
The gardens and the great pomegranate 
flowers, 

125 



Mons Angelorum 

And she, my gentle mother in Mizraim, 
Calling me, "Mesu, Mesu." 
Joshua — I cannot think. 

My sorrow stays me and my grief prevents. 
Yet there are heathen foes and wars to come. 
I take thy sword. I cannot take thy soul. 
Master of Law, unshaken friend of God, 
But I can fight for Israel. 
Moses — Fight, and stand 

Firmly for God. Jehovah is salvation. 
And now, beloved son in all but blood. 
Go, get you down again. 
Joshua — A little longer, 

Leave me a little longer with you, lord! 
Moses — No longer, for the gates of Jife are 
lonely. 
Out of the dark man cometh to his life. 
Into the dark he goeth. 

Down, look down, 
Down to the clustered tents, each with its 

lives 
Of foolish children, vexed with many fears, 
Agonies, hopes, beliefs inherited, 
126 



Mons Angelorum 

Dark hates, fond dreams, divine humilities. 
Shall they go leaderless from stream to 

stream, 
Following the far-flung visions of despair, 
These that have been my sheep? 
Joshua — I cannot, father. 

I am a man of war and not of wisdom. 
They will not know my voice nor follow 
me. 
Moses — Man, is it thy faint voice shall be up- 
lifted, 
To soothe the fearful and uphold the strong. 
To lead the unshaken tribes to victory 
Against the men of Amalek and Ai, 
Lords of the plain and coast? Is it thy 

strength ? 
Nay, but Jehovah's in thee. As the cloud 
Filling the empty valley of the hills, 
As the white flood along the water-courses 
That once were barren, so His strength will 

pass 
Into the pits and runnels of thy soul. 
127 



Mons Angelorum 

Fight, for the Lord is with thee. Stand 
thou firm. 
Joshua — Lo, I would rather stay and die with 
thee 

Than pass with shining banners and with 
song 

Of silver shawms and trumpets, in thy place 

Over the river Jordan. 
Moses — Nay, I pass 

Over a deeper river, with no songs. 

No mighty trumpetings, no pride of ban- 
ners. 

Toil have I borne but triumph is not mine. 

Once, once mine eyes shall see the Promised 
Land, 

Her forts and towers, cities and pleasant 
fields. 

Her palms and cedars, vines and olive trees, 

And then be darkened. Here's my heritage. 

Here by these mighty chasms, these God- 
ward peaks, 

My last resort, my lone abiding place. 
128 



Mons Angelorum 

See, the night comes. How is it with thee, 

son? 
Joshua — A cloud has drawn between us and the 

plain, 
A darkness moves between us and the sky. 
Full of vague voices, mighty whisperings. 
Wings, and the sound of them. 

O, never man 
Has breathed such chilling air as this which 

blows 
Out of the dark. O, never man has heard 
Such sounds as these which beat upon my 

soul, 
Known, yet unknown; familiar, yet most 

dread ! 
Lord, must I go? 
Moses — This is the wind of death, 

And this the cold that lies without the 

world, 
And these the sounds that thrill the un- 
trodden void 
Beyond the lonelier stars. Go down, go 

down 

129 



Mons Angelorum 

To darkened Israel mourning in his tents. 
I can no longer see thee. Stand thou firm. 
{Joshua goes; the cloud surrounds Moses.) 
O ye celestial presences, great shapes 
With terrible fair faces, towering wings, — 
Wings with the wine-deep glow of amethyst, 
Sheath over sheath like folded water-buds 
Lit with an inward flame; wings pale as 

foam, 
Faint plumes showered with silver; wings 

serene 
Uplifted in a radiant arc of dawn, — 
Unchain the prisoned pinions of this soul, 
Say to the blind bird, Fly, Bid life recede, 
A bubble before the advancing wave of 

death. 
From my youth upward I have spoken of 

death, 
Nor knew the word so sweet. There's music 

in it, 
Music to break the heart. O, heavenly 

guards. 
Looking so long in your immortal eyes 
130 



Mons Angelorum 

I am grown old. Death calls me as a sleep, 
A rest desired, a rich forgetfulness, 
After too much of life. 
Angel of Darkness — Life is no more. 

A little flame soon swallowed in the night, 
A harp that hath no voice, a bow unstrung, 
Pride of the grass and power of the reed, 
Life is as swift in breaking. Peace be on 

thee ; 
Mine are the wings of peace. Men call me 

death, 
But so God hath not named me. 
Angel of Light — Life is past, 

Thy ground is taken, thy tent is pitched for- 
ever. 
Drink of these wells and be forsworn of 

sorrow. 
Forsaken of weeping. Men have called me 

death. 
Yet am I less and greater. 
Angel of Dreams — Peace be on thcc. 

Peace and good rest. Mine are the wings 
of silence 

131 



Mons Angelorum 

Folded in silver sleep before my face; 

This in my hand is golden fruit of Eden, 

Whose scent is sleep; its flame-white flower 
grew 

Along the glades where Adam walked with 
God, 

Death have men called me, yet I am not 
death. 

Take thy last look on life. 
Moses — O, Land of Promise, 

From the great plains of Moab to the sea, — 

Thy blossoming orchards, streams, and pal- 
aces 

Like golden beads threaded on silver strings. 

Thy towering walls and pinnacles of 
pride, — 

A fruitful field it is, ripe for the harvest. 

The harvest of the sword. 

I shall not reap it, 

The winepress of His wrath I shall not 
tread. 

Plighted am I to silence; I go down, 
132 



Mons Angelorum 

Dead, to the dead, and am no more re- 
membered 
Upon the lips of men. 

Those sceptred kings, 
The solemn dead of old Mizraim, who sit 
Forever in the sun beside their tombs, 
With blank eyes smiling on eternity, 
Crowned with the reed and lotus, do they 

live 
More than their grass and lilies? Those I 

knew. 
Princes and scribes, lords of the desert, 

priests 
Learned above the wit of common minds, 
Captains and merchants, rulers over gold, 
Feathers and spices, emeralds, ivories, 
Brought to the feet of Pharaoh: what of 

them? 
What of the King, Lord of the North and 

South, 
Son of the Sun, like to the Sun forever? 
A sun? A darkened light, a star o'er- 

whelmed, 

133 



Mons Angelorum 

When his fierce horsemen sank beneath that 

surge 
Whose crest was blood and terror, — when 

there died 
On one hushed night, all the firstborn of 

Egypt. 

O night divine, I set thine excellence 
Above the twice-crowned noon. Here is no 

star, 
No slenderest crescent poised above the 

world, 
No lingering love of day. But the soft 

dark 
Folds inward as a flower, enfolding me, 
My length of little days, wisdom and grief, 
Light as a drop of rain. 
Angel of Dreams — Tender is night, 

But tenderer far the limits of this death, 
This dream-encompassed city. Here no 

sound 
Shall wake thee, from thy sleep no storm 

disturb, 

134 



Mons Angelorum 

Though here all storms are born. Tempest 

and cloud, 
Thunder and hail, the mightiest airs of God, 
The hosts of night, the hot triumphant 

dawn, 
Seasons, and times, and days, unknown shall 

march 
O'er thy surrendered head. 
Moses — O loneliest rest! 

On my lost grave only the winds shall 

mourn. 
The white rain do me service, the sad stars 
Age after age with endless circling eyes 
View this last desolation. In thy hands, 
Into thy hands, O death. Break the worn 

thread 
That binds the rifted pattern of the loom. 
O King of kings, forsake not now Thy 

servant. 
Angel of Darkness — Lo, the black crags leap to 

the vaulted cloud, 
Towering without a sound. The dark takes 

substance 

135 



Mons Angelorum 

In domes and depths of mightiest design 
And seals him from the world. Pillared 

like Thebes, 
Straight as the tall palm-orchard lift the 

walls 
Of this vast grave. Life has no meaning 

here, 
Light has no name nor place. O human 

heart, 
Fain for the little shows of grief, for tears 
And kindlier sepulchre, no king shall sleep 
So royally housed as thou, 
Moses — Draw near, draw near. 

The string is all but parted. Shape thy 

wings 
Into a roof of silver silences, 
A dome of deep repose, O murmuring 

flood, 
O tide of death lifting the weed of life, 
O passive arbiter, indifferent power 
In whose still hand the kingdoms of the 

world 
Lie like a beggar's coin, beneath whose heel 
136 



Mons Angelorum 

Nations are drifted dust, accept thou me. 
The bubble of life is broken. 
Angel of Light — Life begins. 

Cover his face, kind Darkness, with thy 

wings 
Smooth as the wild swan's breast. Let no 

wind wake 
An echo in this holy solitude. 
Let the enduring seasons with soft tread 
Circle these sacred hills; no falling star 
Shiver the fine perfection of repose. 
God hath his life. Guard Thou his mighty 

dust. 
Angel of Darkness — I am the firstborn angel. 

Ere this world 
Was shapen, I endured within the void 
Waiting the word of God. Beyond this 

world 
I shall endure, when the young stars are 

driven 
Outworn in dust along the roads of space, 
Blown by the breath of chaos. When this 

plan, 

137 



Mons Angelorum 

This present firmament, vision and light, 
Princes of heaven, dominions, powers, are 

past, 
I shall remain about the eternal throne 
Veiling the thoughts of God. Leave him 

with me, 
Ye younger spirits; such silence is too old 
For your bright souls to bear. Leave me 

my dead. 

(The angels of Light and Dreams take flight. 
The angel of Darkness covers Moses with 
his ivings.) 
The dead are mine. Swift they come down 

to me. 
The little life they suffer, their frail dream 
Is past. Here is no memory, here no hope, 
No reason, no despair nor happiness. 
Only the dust and L It is His will. 
Voices of Israel — Who now shall stand between 
us and our God? 



138 



A Saxon Epitaph 

The earth builds on the earth 
Castles and towers; 
The earth saith of the earth: 
All shall be ours. 

Yea, though they plant and reap 
The rye and the corn, 
Lo, they were bond to Sleep 
Ere they were born. 

Yea, though the blind earth sows 
For the fruit and the sheaf, 
They shall harvest the leaf of the rose 
And the dust of the leaf. 

Pride of the sword and power 

Are theirs at their need 

Who shall rule but the root of the 

flower 
The fall of the seed. 
139 



A Saxon Epitaph 

They who follow the flesh 

In splendour and tears, 

They shall rest and clothe them afresh 

In the fulness of years. 

From the dream of the dust they came 

As the dawn set free. 

They shall pass as the flower of the 

flame 
Or the foam of the sea. 

The earth builds on the earth 
Cities and towers. 
The earth saith of the earth: 
All shall be ours. 



140 



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